


Soft

by ficteer



Category: Ookiku Furikabutte | Big Windup!
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 04:11:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6737767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficteer/pseuds/ficteer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was warm in the library.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soft

**Author's Note:**

> [do you ever just hate alex so much](http://bokuboks.tumblr.com/post/143210274851/some-stuff-from-my-twitter-sleepy-soft)

It’s been a long week, and Abe knows it’s stupid to rest his head for even a second. He’s kind of like his dad in that way, where the second he stills himself when he’s tired - boom - he’s out. He knows, _knows_ it, but it’s been a _long week_ and, well. Sue him, yeah?

So he puts his elbow up on the desk and tries as hard as he can to focus on where Mihashi’s reading. It’s kind of his - well, job makes it seem like a commitment, and while he treats it like one, it’s more of a - well, privilege is a little stiff and formal and - _well._ Abe _likes_ sitting across from Mihashi while he’s reading, likes watching Mihashi’s golden eyes track the letters across the page, likes watching him better his English because Momoe will have his ass if he gets another shitty grade (mostly because Shiga-sensei will have _her_ ass), just. He _likes_ Mihashi, is the thing. Likes him enough to sit across from him and prop his head up and fight the losing battle of his sinking eyelids.

The problem is that the library is nice and warm this time of year. The edge of spring, not quite summer where it’s too hot to get comfortable, not too cool so he can’t sink into the scent of sweet flowers coming into their own through the open window. It’s too soon for the chimes to have been put out just yet, so the only sound is the soft background murmur of other students ahead of their exam schedules and the occasional flutter of paper when Mihashi manages to turn the page, the soft squeak of the chair as Mihashi adjusts his posture a bit, the wet lick of his tongue over his lips as he concentrates hard. Abe closes his eyes to breathe in deeply, see if he can pick out the smell of Mihashi-san’s detergent over the books and old wood, and somewhere in his mind he feels like he can, a little bit, even though it doesn’t make sense because they’re not sitting _that_ close and it’s probably just his imagination. Just like he knows he can’t smell the pocari on Mihashi’s gentle breath, or the generic shampoo they all share in the locker room.

Abe goes to open his eyes again, but they’re really comfortable, just like this. He can concentrate on the little pieces of Mihashi he doesn’t always notice when his eyes are too busy tracking his body. He could sketch Mihashi’s figure from memory if he had any kind of artistic skill whatsoever, for sure. He knows every curve of muscle, the exact angle of his fingers against his palm, the precise curve of his lips when he tries to sound out a complicated English vocabulary word. But like this, eyes closed, Abe can focus on the... feel of Mihashi in his space. The way Abe can just _tell_ Mihashi’s close. The way he can _feel_ him nearby. It’s soothing, knowing that Mihashi’s there, that they’re not talking, not even really interacting, but they’re still together, still consciously aware of one another, choosing each other’s presence over anyone else’s. Like, shit, Nishihiro should be the one sitting by Mihashi. He’d be more helpful, able to do more than just sit there and - and _bask_ in Mihashi, or whatever it was Abe was doing.

But he wasn’t. Abe was. Abe was here, because Mihashi wanted it that way. Because _Abe_ wanted it that way.

“Taka?” comes a soft voice, so tender it hurts in the best kind of way. Abe blinks his eyes open, then huffs out in annoyance as he feels his face turn a bit warm. Mihashi was staring at him, eyes hooded and lips parted just so, cheeks a little pink and face open and inviting.

“Sorry,” Abe mumbles, distracted by the way Mihashi’s hair is curling defiantly from their post-practice shower. He'd just gotten his hair cut, so the tips of his ears are visible near strands Abe knows are soft as silk. He’s grown into the wildness of his hair over the years, his face maturing to take away the too-young look and replacing it with a kind of beauty that still takes Abe’s breath away sometimes. People talk about _him_ , about how Abe Takaya apparently has some kind of fan club run by a second year, but Mihashi - _Mihashi_ was _beautiful_.

Mihashi shakes his head slightly, hand dropping from his face and landing on top of where Abe has his resting on the table. Abe lets his gaze meet the place where Mihashi's twined their fingers together, watches as he tangles them up, blurs the lines a little, smudges the barrier between them and get always a little closer. He follows the strength of Mihashi’s hand up his arm, eyes catching on the skipped button at his throat, swallows the charmed smile he feels die beneath the warmth of Mihashi’s stare.

“You look...” Mihashi trails off, visibly unable to think of the word or phrase bouncing around in his brain. Abe usually tries to prompt him when he gets like this, a little too distracted to communicate with someone who can't half-read his mind like Abe can, but - This was one of those few times Abe _didn’t_ know what Mihashi was thinking, not exactly, except maybe that Mihashi looks kind of like how Abe feels: a little stunned, a little struck by love, a little bit like if he could tear away from the moment and look at his watch the hands would have stopped.

“Yeah?” Abe says, feeling the corner of his mouth curl into a little bit of a smile. “You gonna do something about it?”

“Yeah,” Mihashi echoes, agrees, whichever it was. But he doesn't move, eyes never settling in one place too long on Abe, like he's some kind of entranced and trying to decide exactly what has him feeling that way. It has the school library feeling just a little bit bigger, having Mihashi look at him like that, a lot emptier, like the two of them are the only ones there, like this is just Mihashi’s bedroom and it's just the two of them, door shut and mother still unaware. The sun is streaming in through the open window, cutting through the leaves of spring trees and dancing like stars along Mihashi’s skin, cutting across freckles that threaten to cascade over Mihashi’s cheekbones the moment he spends a second longer in the sun.

Mihashi’s fingers tighten on Abe’s, just a hint, and then Mihashi leans in just a bit closer, swaying into the space that is as much his as it is Abe’s. It feels a bit like a dream, like maybe he’s fallen asleep and Mihashi is still reading his assignment for English, that his eyes are closed and he's still imagining that he's close enough to feel the warmth of Mihashi’s blush against his nose. Sweet-smelling hair, not his own, curls against his forehead, warm skin brushing against his own in a tender nuzzle that cracks him open with affection. A soft touch at his wrist where his head had still been propped up is his only warning.

Lips touch his own, and Abe feels his eyelids flutter closed. He leans into the kiss, hand moving from his own cheek to reach the scant inches to rest on Mihashi’s, to feel the press of Mihashi’s jaw against his own and the softness of skin that would soon alight to gold in the summer sun. He remembers their first kiss - how Mihashi had trembled desperately, the two of them so unsure, so _sure,_ vibrating beneath their skin. This wasn’t anything like that - hundreds, thousands, _innumerable_ kisses since have eased the way to cotton-soft lips caressing his own, as soft and delicate as the wrist beneath Abe’s on the tabletop. Mihashi has this thing about Abe touching his wrists, has this little soft sound he always makes into their kisses when Abe takes his fingertips and caresses his pulse, this little quirk that drives Abe absolutely wild. He parts his lips so that sound can escape, feels the way Mihashi’s face flames in embarrassment, rewards him with a soft nip of teeth to his lower lip and a firmer touch to soothe.

“That was mean, Taka,” Mihashi mumbles against his mouth, and Abe doesn't even have to open his eyes to know that Mihashi is pouting beautifully. He lets the smirk curl, presses one last kiss to Mihashi’s mouth before he pulls back and stretches over the back of his chair. Finally, he cracks one eye open and sure enough, Mihashi's flushed, lower lip pulled between his teeth and eyes dilated and at odds with the rest of his face.

“Are you almost finished?” Abe asks, looking down to the textbook that had gone forgotten for just a single moment. Mihashi huffs, squaring to the table and shooting Abe one last sour look before going back to his work. He would ignore Abe for the next few minutes, Abe knew, maybe huffing one more time if Abe didn’t seem sufficiently chastised for winding him up in public where they couldn’t do anything about it. And so Abe rests his head on his hand once again, eyes drooping closed and a smile ghosting his lips when he feels one bony ankle wrap delicately, unseen, around his own.

 

 


End file.
